IV. Sex and the Conspiracy Theory

Posted in Episode, Sex with tags , , , , on September 16, 2010 by TD

Spy had a theory about W[tf] and the way it all went down:  It’s 1998, and the Republican old boys are hanging around wondering who they’re going to run against Al Gore…they need somebody young and vital.

Strom (or some other fossil)  looks at George Herbert Bush and says: “What about your kid, G.B., ain’t he a governor or something?”  Bush combines a Jon Stewart-doing-Johnny Carson “just smelled something funny” look with a Rodney Dangerfield yank of the tie…”You mean Jeb, right?” (nodding furiously)

“No, Dubya!”

“Duh–Dubya?  Ya mean Jeb, right?”

“Are there cattle in yer canyon?  I said Dubya!”

These guys then took W[tf] by the scruff and sat him down.  “Listen kid, you don’t have to do anything.  Just shut up and do what we tell you, and you’ll be President.”

“Heh, heh, President?  S’pose I cain’t eff anything up worse than I did my baseball team, heh…heh, heh!”

(cut to GHB, looking ill)

“We got Dick Cheney here, and he’ll do all the heavy lifting…you just do what he says, and after four years of pro-oil legislatin’ you’ll be richer than your wildest dreams.”


“Alright then.”

“Done and done!!!”

“Alright then, Dubya, that’s enough son.”


At first, everything went great.  Cheney took the helm and W[tf] took vacations–some six weeks’ worth in the first eight months of his “presidency.”

Then 19 animals from al-Qaeda killed nearly 3,000 American civilians.

What happened then?  America needed a President.

Heels screeching across the polished White House floor, W[tf] was shoved by his handlers to the forefront to calm the nation.  He didn’t do a half-bad job, and Cheney got nervous.

As Americans clung to the Presidency like Lindsay Lohan to a fifth of SoCo, W[tf]’s approval ratings skyrocketed–the highest in history!

Of course, Sponge Bob Square Pants would’ve racked up 75% in those months if he sounded reassuring and managed not to wet himself.

W[tf] missed the memo.  He believed his own press clips.

“Hey, heh, heh, I’m good at this job!”

(Cheney interjects) “Um, Mr. President…”

“Uh, hold on, Dick, I’m pon-tif-icatin’.  I am the greatest President of all time…”

(Cheney, deflated)  “Ooh, bouy…”

So W[tf] takes over…stops listening to Cheney, and starts making some really scary moves.  Iraq this, and civil liberties that…sure Cheney was impressed, but the jackasses were running the zoo.

It wasn’t just power-crazy scary, it was “God told me to do this!” scary.

Now, Spy had nothing against God–though there was a kind of “who’s cooler” thing between them–and most every president has been a church-going guy, but most presidents also had a fair dose of intellect informing their conversations with the Higher Power.  Some of them even read newspapers.

Alas, W[tf] had only: “Heh, well what the heck should I do, God..?”

(God buries his face in his hand)!”

All of this played itself out as the second election was stol…er, won, and America spiraled into a collective-emotional and economic nightmare.

Meanwhile, though, Spy wasn’t letting Cheney and the other handlers slide.  W[tf] was too easy a target, and even sympathetic (pathetic?) in a way.  But THEY had made it all happen.

So for now, Spy would let W[tf] live…a decision briefly called into question as the ex-president missed a door and walked squarely into a wall.

Spy calmly walked over and lifted the small man’s date book from a pocket, opened it to D, and memorized an address…

“Okay Dick…time for a referendum! ”



III. Sex and the Ex

Posted in Episode, None Dead with tags , , , , , , on September 9, 2010 by TD

W[tf] was looking down, furiously working through the stick pony’s mane.  “Damned ticks,” he muttered, unaware

of Spy’s presence.   Spy cleared his throat.

“Um, yep, heh, heh–ah, hold on a sec.” stuttered the ex-President.  He was wearing cowboy boots that John McRea might say shone like justice, along with a pair of pristine creased blue jeans, a mother-of-pearl-festooned cowboy shirt, and a red bandanna around his neck.  Atop it all was a mighty ten gallon hat, featuring a cameo etching of the ex-First Grandlady, Barbara Bush.

“Nice etching.  Is that scrimshaw?”

“Heck no, heh,heh, that’s my mom!  What can I do ya for?”

“Can we go inside to talk?”

“Well sure, come on in.  Have Mommy make us some lemonade….HEY LAURA!!!?”

Spy followed the small man into a big house, pausing to admire the wax figures of Condolezza Rice and Colin Powell in the foyer (or were they wax?)…Powell was pointing a finger and appeared irate; Condi offered a salacious look, which was off-putting on any day, but was especially so on a waxy countenance that made her skeletal appearance even more Dr. Phibes than usual.

“So who did you say you…were?” W[tf]’s voice trailed off as a memory from a deep dark place drifted forth……………………………………………………I mean this place was deep………………………………………………………….and dark………………………………………….wait for it………………………………………………there….there it is, okay.   “Wait a cotton-damned moment–pardon the rough language–you’re, you’re that Spy feller…”

“So you remember me?”  Spy stepped closer.

“Yes?”  Tiny beads of sweat blossomed across W[tf]’s upper lip.

“Skull & Bones?”

“Acorns up my butt.”


“That girl who gave me panty-crickets?”  The Ex’s eyes grew wider. “What you did to the head-bones-guy?”

Spy’s eyes took on an etched red tinge.  His face had “menace” written all over it (seriously, he wrote all over his face–subtlety was long-abandoned by this point).  “Do you know why I’m here?”

“To give me more panty-crickets?”


“You…you’re going to kill me?  Listen, I know a lotta people don’t like me right now, but I didn’t mean all those things…takin’ liberties with liberties…that whole Eye-raq thing, weapons of mass destruction…”   He waved towards a giant map of Iraq on the wall–taped together sheets from Google Maps–the little yellow street-level-view guys circled on each one.  “Gotta admit, these little fellers look mighty suspicious…heh, heh….turns out they’re guides…”

Spy’s eyes narrowed…his lips pulled tight across his teeth in a hideous smile…he inched towards the trembling Texan.

“I don’t want you.  I’m looking for Dick.”

“Well, heh, heh, you’ve got the wrong fella, heh, heh.  Don’t swing that way, if you know what I mean, heh, heh.”

The blood vessels in Spy’s temples began popping in a tiny procession towards his brain…like a string of fireworks building to the grand finale.

“Not you,” he spat, “I want Big Dick.  Cheney.”


II. Sex and the Defenseless

Posted in Episode, Whoops with tags , , , , , on September 2, 2010 by TD

You’d barely notice the three-mile driveway from the main road. In fact, if it weren’t for incontrovertible evidenceHigh Horse from the CIA, MI5, and Jo-Jo the Dunce from East Baghdad, you’d swear there weren’t any WM…er, driveways at all. Spy summoned his will (and not unremarkable acting chops) to appear simple-minded as he approached the guard house.

“Excuse me, Officer…” he began.

“That’s Rummy!” Shot back the fellow, hitching up a utility belt bristling with high-tech gear: billy club, mace, Yukon Jack nip, Where in the World is Carmen San Diego decoder widget. He looked like anybody’s grandpa–if by “grandpa” you meant creepy, please-God-let-me-sit-next-to-anybody-other-than-him-at-Thanksgiving guy.

“Hmmm,” mumbled Spy, “Thought you were more of a mechanic…”

“What, boy???!!!!”

Spy flipped up his choler. A tumbleweed with a vague resemblance to the doomed doorman rolled by and momentarily amused him.

“Sorry, Rummy, I’m here to, um, trim the bushes.”

“Lord knows we could all stand to see them cut back,” he said, surveying the bleak Texan tundra: nothing but mid-sized boulders, cattle, and, strangely, a corral filled only with stick ponies. From the distance, Spy could see a curious pair of ears–and yes, a man attached, holding a saddle, and stroking the nylon mane of a particularly handsome mare.

“There’s the man I need to see,” Our Hero intoned. Rummy was suddenly enraptured by the sound of Spy’s voice. Sonorous, rich, yet delicate–no, dulcet!

“Well, sure, but first you need some verification.” He turned to call that guy who sells goat sticks on the corner of Hate and Assbury in Tikrit.

“You puzzle me; how much do you weigh, Rummy?”

“Huh?” he grunted, back turned.

“What’s your mass?”

“Listen, jack-wagon…”

Before he could turn, the sected secretary was silenced, the victim of an unspeakably-wielded decoder widget.

“Well, well,” mused Spy. “There really are weapons of mass destruction.”

His boot heels made a stylish crunch as he strode towards the not-so-OK corral.


I. Sex and Dallas

Posted in Episode, None Dead with tags , , , , , on August 27, 2010 by TD

Spy was so cool.Almost Toast

He surveyed the mottled expanse of Main Street, Dallas through air that rippled up from pavement hotter than a Jessica Alba smolder. He loved “Jalba” (a lovers’ joke that they once shared) almost as much as he loved vengeance. And this morning, vengeance was on his mind.

“Excuse me,” he said to the young woman passing. She froze in her tracks. Was it the tone of his voice? The rakish lilt of “Excuse”? The inscrutable cut of his chin? A cheap author’s device?

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, “Do I want to know you?”

Spy smiled at the silly question–the closest thing to benevolence Our Hero could muster. “Yes and no. I’m looking for the Bush residence.”

“H. W. or W-W?”

The question spurred a digression: How H.W. had once seemed to be the worst sort of Bush one could encounter–not a Republican/Democrat thing, but a former director of the CIA/Skull and Bones beneficiary/acts like your priggish social studies teacher/”read my lips”-saying kind of thing.

But then came W[tf]. In many ways less-threatening then his dad–which in many other ways was WAY more threatening then his dad. Did that make sense?

Spy snapped-to. “Yes, W-W, thank you.”

“Other side of town; $2 million house; cattle on the lawn.”

Looking the young woman over, Spy’s blood took a mild spike in temperature as he noticed the neo-Go Go’s capri’s…bumped up a notch with the seven-layers-of-shirts-and-sports-bra-over-real-bra, and shot to full boil at the wrist-rubber-bands-for-no-apparent-reason. It wasn’t the fashion disaster; more than just about anything save Farmville, Spy hated followers.

This wasn’t the moment, however, and Spy’s fingernails drew blood in his palms as he resisted the urge to no-go Ms. Go Go.

“Well thank you, miss…I have an ex-president to grill…”

The puzzled and not-insignificantly aroused young woman hurried off. Spy, impossibly composed, headed into the, um, bush…

“Heh, heh, heh…mesquite…or natural?”


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